A moment’s furious pause, as expected, while Mathias, fists and jaw and eyes all clenched, weighed his choices. And then, equally expected, two trembling hands reached back, unfisted, and gripped white-knuckled around the flesh of his ass. Parted it. Offered himself, his much-abused hole. Madame’s pear had absolutely ravaged him, not to mention his time with Nikolai’s hired men. Not the first delivery he’d received with these particular injuries. He suspected someone on his team had a penchant for ill-prepared fisting. How barbaric.
This wouldn’t do at all. Not if he intended to keep Mathias on the right side of that fine line.
Nikolai wet a finger and circled it round the swollen flesh without penetrating. “So much for your vaunted pride,” he said, pressing just a little, just enough to make Mathias whimper. “You can let go now, hole. Your brother sated me well enough. I’d take you with a dildo, but this meek subservience is a side of you I’d care to nurture. So consider my mercy a reward for your self-preservation.”
Mathias’s shoulders slumped, head and hands dropping to the mattress in utter despair. Knowing he’d lost this round— But no. Stiffness, stubbornness, returned. Not as close to the line as Nikolai had feared, then. Good. He was pleased.
“Can’t get it up, huh? Well, take your ‘mercy’ and shove it, asshole. This isn’t self-preservation. It’ll never be self-preservation. I’m doing this for my brother.”
With a sigh and a shake of his head, Nikolai turned to fetch the dildo.
By the time he’d finished with Mathias, he was woefully behind schedule. He hadn’t meant to leave Douglas unattended for quite so long, not when there was important debriefing to be done about what he’d observed through the cameras. This boy questioned everything in his own head. Nikolai had wondered since he’d seen Douglas’s file how different it might be—how much of a challenge it might be—to train such a knowledgeable psychology student. But in the end it might turn out to be easier; Douglas might end up doing half his work for him.
He found the boy still under the table, curled up tight and sleeping deeply enough not to wake at the opening of the door. Roger—what a good little pet he was, always anticipating Nikolai’s needs—had left a tray in the hall: toast with jam, applesauce, a glass of orange juice. Nikolai picked it up, carried it in. Set it on the table above Douglas’s head.
Ah, that woke him. A little gasp. A snuffle. Then silence, stillness. Like a teen in a slasher movie hiding under the bed, praying not to be seen.
Nikolai fitted on his best smile and crouched down beneath the table. “Hello there,” he said.
Douglas blinked at him from his tight little huddle. “H-hello, sir.”
Nikolai held his smile. “You don’t look very comfortable under there.”
Another blink. Another. Debating the value of the truth? Wondering if he’d be punished for complaining? Finally, he tried, “It-it’s not so bad, sir.”
Nikolai held a hand out. Douglas flinched but then caught himself, unwrapped his arms from his knees as if afraid he might startle a cobra at his feet, and hesitantly laid his hand in Nikolai’s.
“Come now, let’s get you comfortable.” Nikolai gave him a gentle tug, helped him unfold himself. Debated for a moment, then guided him into one of the table’s two chairs. He didn’t want to teach him it was permissible to eat at a table without his master’s consent, but the bed seemed too loaded now; Douglas would spend all his time worrying about being taken, rather than focusing on Nikolai’s questions.
Though the way Douglas sat down in the chair, wary and delicate, all the way on the edge, made it clear he thought that was loaded, too.
“Relax,” Nikolai said. “You have pleased me very much this afternoon. I brought you this”—a gesture to the tray—“as reward.” Douglas’s eyes widened as he took in the tray, pupils dilating slightly. He wanted it, but he refrained, waiting for permission. “Yes, that’s very good, Douglas. You must always wait for permission. And now you shall have it. Eat. Enjoy yourself.” At Douglas’s desperate, torn gaze toward the toast, he added, “You may use your hands. This time.”
The boy practically attacked his tray.
“Now tell me,” Nikolai said as Douglas finished off the first slice of toast and reached for the second, “why you chose to sleep under the table when you’ve a perfectly lovely bed?”
Maybe he’d phrased that a little judgmentally, because Douglas immediately stopped eating, eyes wide with fear. “I . . . sir, it’s a nice bed. It’s a very nice bed. I appreciate it, I promise. I’m grateful. You just . . . well, you didn’t give me permission to sleep there.”
It was a good answer, perfectly articulated, so perfect it was obvious Douglas had said it because he’d known it was what Nikolai wanted to hear. But it wasn’t the truth. Or at least . . . not the whole truth. Nikolai could see it in the boy’s eyes. He’d get to the heart of the matter soon enough.
“Fair. But then . . . when you found your food, you seemed confident enough in the belief that eating it like a dog wouldn’t draw my ire. So why weren’t you similarly confident that I’d approve of you sleeping like one?” He flicked his eyes to the kennel. Untouched. Unslept in. Some slaves, like dogs, came to love and feel safe in kennels. Their use in humiliation and punishment couldn’t be understated, but that wasn’t all they were. He liked having them available for both purposes.
“There’s . . .” Douglas averted his eyes a moment, gaze drawn to his tray, but then settled them squarely back on Nikolai’s chin, decision made. Brave boy, so honest. “There’s a lock on the door, sir. I was afraid . . . I was afraid someone would lock me in and leave me there.”
“You don’t want to be left alone anymore.”
“I . . . I mean, if company means . . . means . . .” He hunched in tight on himself again, broke a corner off a slice of toast and chewed it nervously. “Means being . . . used, then . . .” A shrug, as if perhaps he secretly knew he’d pay that price to be let out of the dark, no matter what he’d just said. “But I . . . I miss Mat and I miss my friends and I miss school and I miss Pattie and Mike and I even still miss my parents and I’m . . .” He shrugged again, sniffled, looked vaguely horrified that he’d revealed all that unprompted. He was clearly on the verge of tears. Quite the sensitive subject for him, then, and rightfully so.
He looked up from his tray but didn’t quite make it to Nikolai’s eyes again; this time, his gaze stopped somewhere around the tip of Nikolai’s nose. “And I just want to go home. Sir.” Another nibble of toast when Nikolai remained silent. “Even if it really is all gone now.”
Nikolai sighed through his nose, his chest swelling with ill-advised but utterly uncontrollable affection for the boy. “I’d like for you to see this as home.”
Douglas pounded both fists down on the table, rattling the supper dishes. “Then let me see my brother!” He looked shocked—scared—at his own raised voice. The passion there. The anger. The fear. “Please. Sir,” he concluded at a whisper.
Nikolai leaned back in his chair, steepling his hands. “You’re not going to want to hear this, but I think you put too much emphasis on your brother when it comes to your sense of belonging. You’re together for now under my roof, but what if I’m forced to separate you? If you go on to different places? What if he dies and leaves you behind like your parents did? Like your foster mother did? What if . . .” Nikolai leaned forward, laid a gentle hand over Douglas’s where it lay, trembling, beside the tray. “What if he doesn’t want to see you? Where would you find your meaning then?”
Douglas yanked his hand away.
But his bravery ended there. No vehement denials—he settled instead for a sullen, almost mumbled, “That would never happen.”
Nikolai nudged the glass of orange juice closer, until Douglas took the hint and drank. A hesitant sip at first, but then the taste hit his tongue—he made a soft little noise in the back of his throat and his eyes fluttered closed and he drank and drank.
“Were you ever capable of conce
iving,” Nikolai asked as Douglas finished his juice, “that your parents would leave you alone at thirteen years old?”
Douglas slammed his cup down. “They didn’t leave me; they died. And I wasn’t alone.”
“But could you imagine it? Could your thirteen-year-old brain wrap itself around the idea that maybe one day they would leave for work in the morning and simply not . . . come . . . home?”
Douglas’s fingers tightened around the cup until they turned white. He stared hard at it, at them. But eventually, he conceded, “No.”
“And your brother, too. Had you ever been able to conceive of a time when he wouldn’t be there?”
“But he was,” Douglas snapped. “He stayed. He could’ve gone to Vegas, trained with Coach Darryl years earlier, fought in the UFC. They offered him a contract. He told them no. So he could stay.” Ah, this time he met Nikolai’s eyes. “With me.”
So certain, the poor dear. But Nikolai knew better. “Only on the weekends. He saw you, what, eight hours a week? Ten? You were a burden on him. A burden on everyone. Pattie died of a heart attack at just fifty-five years old, after raising you for six years. And Mike remarried and moved to Florida and never even asked if you wanted to come with him, did he? He had a new family. One he wanted. One he loved. One he chose.”
“He loved me,” Dougie ground out, every word its own hate-filled sentence. “He still loves me. They didn’t have to keep me, you know. They chose to keep me.”
Nikolai raised an eyebrow, leaned back in his chair. “They were paid to keep you.” Before Douglas’s protest could be voiced, Nikolai added, “Tell me, how often does he see you?”
Douglas grimaced. “We . . . keep in touch. I called him. I called him last week! Well, a week before . . . before all this.”
“And how long did you talk? Does he ever call you?”
“He’s busy. Long distance is kind of expensive.”
No reason to reply to that. They both knew it was ridiculous. This fight was won; time to tackle the brother again. “And Mat? Don’t you think he resents you? A promising career flushed down the toilet, and for what? You’re twenty-three years old and you’ve never had a job, you’re still piddling around in school avoiding the real world. You’ve made nothing of yourself, done nothing with all the sacrifices he’s made for you. The only reason he’s stuck around all this time is because he knows he’s one injury away from the end of his career, and what would he do then? One day, he’ll need you. He’ll need you to take care of him because he gave up the best years of his life for you.”
“You think I don’t know that already? I’m happy to support him. Even if he never got injured . . . I’d have asked him to retire so I could take care of him. That’s why I was getting my Ph.D. To make enough money to take care of him.”
Already talking as if that life was over and gone, and he didn’t even notice.
“All right, then. Let’s accept your theoretical reality in which your brother is happy being financially dependent on you. Do you think he’s happy with you now? After what you did to him at the auction? After what you did to me this morning? Your brother fights me every single moment. You, on the other hand, choose to spare yourself pain at the expense of your dignity.”
He smiled at the memory. Douglas swallowing down his revulsion, sucking Nikolai’s cock, pretending so earnestly to enjoy it. All to avoid pain.
“But . . . but he doesn’t know what I’ve done here. Does he?” Such sweet insecurity. Nikolai relished it.
“No, he doesn’t. I know you don’t realize it yet, but I’m not a cruel man. I wouldn’t humiliate you that way. But that doesn’t change the fact that you know that if he were privy to our private moments together, he might . . .”
“Hate me,” Douglas finished. He picked up his spoon, nudged at his applesauce without eating it. “But that’s all right if he does, sir. I hate myself, too.”
“You shouldn’t. And eventually, given time and my attentions, you won’t. I don’t hate you either, Douglas. I’ll never hate you, and I’ll never judge you. If you let me, I’ll love you as your father did, as Mat did. I simply ask you to consider, when the time comes that Mat does know what you’ve done, when he decides he can’t forgive you for having raped him, tortured him, but you’ve forgiven yourself, how will you reconcile that forgiveness with his hatred then?”
More playing with his applesauce. This time he took a bite; he’d clearly lost his appetite, but it gave him time to think. He clunked the spoon down. Shook his head. “It’s not going to happen. It isn’t. I’m always going to hate this. Myself. You.”
Nikolai risked a touch, curling his fingers around Douglas’s. The boy didn’t pull away, as if he simply couldn’t be bothered. Or didn’t think himself worth the bother. “I don’t think so, Douglas. My vast experience, in fact, assures me otherwise. Here, let me show you.”
He sent Roger a simple text message—“Come”—and his prized pet appeared at the doorway less than a minute later.
“Sir?” Roger asked, striding into the room and dropping to his knees at Nikolai’s feet. Nikolai held a hand out, cupped Roger’s head, drew it to his thigh. Roger didn’t question the affection or his purpose for being here, merely settled against his master with a contented sigh.
“Roger here was like you once, Douglas. The very first lost soul I ever shaped on my own. He too was unwanted, unloved, wandering aimless and unhappy through life. Looking for meaning. I gave him purpose. Direction. And my heart, of course.” He smiled down at Roger, stroked his hair. Roger sighed again and closed his eyes, a perfect smile curling his lips. “I made him whole. Isn’t that right, Roger?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell the boy how you feel, Roger.”
Without lifting his head from Nikolai’s thigh, Roger said, “I’ve never been as happy as the day you showed me to my new self, sir. I’m never so happy as when I’m with you. To pleasure you, sir . . .”
He looked up, hopeful, one hand inching up Nikolai’s thigh. He wasn’t usually so clingy, but then, Nikolai wasn’t usually so permissive, and Roger knew him well enough by now to pick up on even his subtlest signals. Besides, this was what he’d brought him in for, so he smiled down at Roger, gave him a little nod, leaned back in his chair and spread his legs.
“You see,” Nikolai said to Douglas as Roger settled between his thighs. “There’s no sadness in Roger’s life now. No pain. No fear at all. Only love, pride, pleasure. Look how happy he is.”
He was happy indeed as he sucked Nikolai with such remarkable skill that Nikolai came in a minute, perhaps two. Nikolai let his affection for Roger shine through the whole time, though he kept his eyes locked with Douglas’s. See? You can have this. You can be this complete. You will love me and yourself. I’ll guide you.
“This is . . .” Douglas licked his lips, unable to hide how he gawked at Roger dutifully lapping Nikolai’s sated cock clean. “This isn’t real love. It isn’t real happiness, either. I’m halfway through my Ph.D. in psychology—you think I can’t recognize Stockholm Syndrome? He’s brainwashed. You’ve . . . you abused him and tortured him and raped him and confused him until he twisted that around into love. Until he was so desperate for any scrap of affection that he—”
Douglas’s face crumpled suddenly, in horror perhaps, or sadness, or fear. He’d looked at Roger and seen his future. Knew just enough about the human mind, no doubt, to know his own was not immune.
“We are all creatures of our circumstances, Douglas. When those circumstances change, so too must we. Or be crushed by them. Don’t you want to be happy, Douglas? Don’t you want to live free of pain, free of fear?” He threaded his fingers through Roger’s hair as Roger buttoned his fly for him, let Roger rub his cheek against his chest. If men could purr, Roger would have been.
Douglas watched all this, but said nothing. Revealed little on his face, either, his eyes shuttered, his lips pressed. But he was no different than the rest; Nikolai knew exactly what was going through h
is head right now.
“You think you need not change because your circumstances will change back. You still hold onto hope that this life is temporary, that your old one is waiting for you to return to. And so you’ll resist, and try to fool me, and bide your time.”
Still no reply, but a muscle twitched in Douglas’s jaw. Roger settled back on his heels, laid his head against Nikolai’s thigh, and rolled his eyes—Foolish child.
“That’s all right, Douglas. Nothing will change that misconception but time. And I’ve plenty of that. We both do. In the meanwhile, like any good guardian, I’ll do my best to guide you, to bring you round to the truth, no matter how painful. Because only when you let go of the past can you accept the future. Only then can you truly change. And you may not believe it now, but the day will come when you’ll beg me to help you change. And I promise you I will.”
Still the boy said nothing, though he looked on the verge of tears again. Processing, no doubt, trying to think ahead, to outmaneuver, to find the holes in Nikolai’s words. But Nikolai had been doing this long enough to know there weren’t any.
“It’s a lot to take in, I know. I’ll speak with your brother; perhaps I can convince him to see you. Would you like that?”
The silence stretched on so long he began to suspect Douglas wouldn’t speak to him at all, that perhaps this was some new tack, some new technique or resistance. But at last Douglas ground out, “Yes, sir.”
Nikolai smiled, tapped Roger once on the shoulder—his signal to rise. “Very good. Now then, finish your food. And then get some rest—in the bed, if you would. You must keep your strength up. You’ll need it for what’s to come.”
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